


Lost Like Me

by Cicerothewriter



Series: All the World is Blind [2]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Slash, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:38:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poirot and Hastings are called away to prevent a murder. That is the least of Hastings' problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: Poetry themes! A mixture of WWI and homoerotic. The series' title comes from "At a Dinner Part" by Amy Levy.
> 
> Note 2: A big thank you to my LJ friends list for reading the drafts, and to Saltedpin for for help in decoding the cricket lingo. That was a lot of work for one paragraph.

_Looks not in my eyes, for fear  
They mirror true the sight I see,  
And there you find your face too clear  
And love it and be lost like me.  
One the long nights through must lie  
Spent in star-defeated sighs,  
But why should you as well as I  
Perish? Gaze not in my eyes._

A. E. Housman

 

It was a crisp autumn afternoon on that day. I turned off the wireless, pleased that England had won their test match. Poirot was reading a letter, his expression intent, and I knew not to bother him at that particular moment.

I rose, and walked into Ms. Lemon's office. She was busy typing, but she smiled at me when I entered.

"England won their test match versus India," I said, sitting on the corner of her desk.

"That's good," she replied, her fingers never stopping.

"Yes, England won the toss and elected to bat. England was 70 runs ahead after the first innings. In the second they scored 275, and India was all out for 187. England won by 158 runs, despite Peters going out for a duck in the second innings."

Ms. Lemon looked at me, and I took her expression to be one of mild interest. I was about to explain how this match compared with England's last match when Poirot entered the room, and so I turned my attention to him.

He handed me the letter he had been reading, and said, "Read this, Hastings, and tell me what you think."

The letter read: "Dear Monsieur Poirot, I need your assistance. I am holding a party Friday evening, and I think that someone will try to kill me during the party. I wish for you to come to my estate on that day and discover who wishes to kill me. If I am killed, I wish for you to find out who did it. Please help me! I am a desperate man." The letter was signed Sasha Smolensky.

"Who is Sasha Smolensky?" I asked, intrigued by the idea of preventing a murder that had not yet been committed.

"He is a refugee from Russia," Poirot answered. "He fled with his fortune to England, and now resides on an estate in Oxfordshire."

I looked at the letter again. It was a cream-colored, heavy paper accompanied by a matching envelope. The handwriting was bold and uniform but for a few curious flourishes.

While I was inspecting the letter, Poirot said, "You will accompany me, yes? I think this might become an interesting case."

"Of course," I said, and returned the letter to Poirot.

"Will you make the necessary arrangements, Ms. Lemon?"

"Certainly, Monsieur Poirot."

 

Friday morning I was seated across from Poirot on the train that would take us to Sasha Smolensky's estate. Poirot was busy reading, and so there was ample time for me to think about the past few months. I felt unease and guilt in equal measure with desire and need, and not for the first time I wondered whether Brighton had been a blessing or a curse.

At Brighton I had met my former batman and lover, Reginald Jeeves, who was himself on holiday. Soon after we returned to our respective homes, Jeeves and I began a regular correspondence. On a couple of occasions we enjoyed dinner together, but that had been the extent of our meetings.

After my return from South American (which had been mentioned briefly in the case of the ABC murders), Poirot invited me to once more resume my lodgings with him rather than in my own flat. His reasoning was that I travelled so much and when I was not traveling I was visiting with him that the expense of a mostly empty flat did not seem sensible. I was only too happy to return to my previous home in Whitehaven Mansions, more for the pleasure of Poirot's company and not for any financial consideration.

However, this also meant that it was more difficult to hide anything from Poirot (and to a lesser extent from Ms. Lemon). Ms. Lemon usually separated our mail before giving Poirot his morning correspondence, but sometimes he retrieved them himself. He rarely commented on the letters that I received, and so I was surprised when he asked me about them. "I cannot help noticing, Hastings, that you have been receiving many letters from an 'R. Jeeves.'"

"Oh yes," I had said, lowering the paper which I had been reading. "Reginald Jeeves. He was my batman during the war. I met him recently, and we began a correspondence."

Poirot nodded, his expression still curious. Nevertheless, he seemed to accept my answer, and spoke no more about it.

Another consequence of my liaison with Jeeves was the now constant awareness of Poirot as a man and not just as a friend or as an unobtainable object of affection. I would find myself wondering if Poirot's neck was sensitive to kisses or what acts of pleasure he preferred. This awareness made me uneasy in Poirot's presence because even though I knew that Poirot could not read minds, I worried that I would give something away in my words or facial expressions. After the first few weeks, I was able to present an outward calm, but the confusion remained.

I wished that I could speak with someone about what was happening, but the person I trusted most was also the center of my problem. I considered speaking with Jeeves, but it hardly seemed proper to speak about one love to another. I thought about Ms. Lemon, and immediately crossed her from my mental list as I was blushing too hard to do any more than contemplate asking for her assistance.

I looked from the window to find Poirot staring at me. "Everything all right, Poirot?" I asked, my heart beating faster as I looked into his dark eyes.

" _Ça va_ , Hastings," he replied. "You look deep in thought."

"Yes," I said, trying to come up with something appropriate to say. "Do you really think that this Mr. Smolensky is in danger?"

"I do not know, Hastings, but should he be safe, why send such a message to me?"

I nodded, feeling almost chastised. For a moment I could have swore that Poirot was disappointed, but why?

 

Our train arrived on time, and a beautiful ivory Rolls awaited us. We were driven to Smolensky's house, which was a large stone manor surrounded by acres of grass and a forest. The servants took our luggage, and we were escorted into the foyer.

The gentleman who greeted us was handsome in a dark, eastern sort of way. His expression was friendly, if slightly calculating, and his voice held few traces of his origins.

"Good morning, Monsieur Poirot, Captain Hastings. It is good of you to come."

"Not at all, Monsieur Smolensky," Poirot said, shaking his hand.

Smolensky shook my hand, and then said, "Please come into my office. We shall not be disturbed there."

We proceeded to his office, which was a dark wood affair with overstuffed furniture and a collection of oil paintings, sculptures, and tapestries. It was tasteful, if a bit crowded.

We sat down across from Smolensky in two leather chairs while he sat at his desk, which held books and papers scattered about its surface. I spotted a Russian dictionary as well as an Oxford Concise English Dictionary, and wondered what he had been translating.

Smolensky began without preamble. "I have received several letters, Monsieur Poirot, which concern me. As you are no doubt aware, I have made several enemies, and I am almost certain that it is one of them who wish to kill me."

"Almost certain?" Poirot asked.

Smolensky shrugged, offered both of us a cigar, which we declined, and said, "Almost. That is what I wish for you to discover, Monsieur Poirot. It is certainly possible that I have unknown enemies."

"May I see these letters?" Poirot asked.

"Of course," Smolensky replied. He reached into a drawer and pulled out the letters which were neatly tied with a cord. He handed them to Poirot, and then sat back in his chair.

"If you are so concerned about your safety," I asked, while Poirot examined the letters, "why are you holding this party?"

"I promised a friend of mine that I would host an event to celebrate his brother's birthday. It seems that his brother loves mazes, and I am in possession of one." Smolensky rolled his eyes at that.

"A maze?" I asked, surprised.

Smolensky nodded. "A hedge maze. It was built in the 18th century by the lord who owned this mansion. He built it as a gift for his wife."

I smiled at the story. When I looked over at Poirot, he had a thoughtful expression on his face.

Smolensky laughed. "Some gift. One of their children, a little girl, got lost in the maze and died."

"Oh," I said, disappointed.

"Or at least I think that is the story," Smolensky continued. "The British do love their ghost stories."

"These letters mention a woman, Monsieur Smolensky," Poirot said.

"Yes, they do. I was engaged to marry her, but when I had to escape, she stayed behind with her family. I doubt she has anything to do with this. We agreed to the split; I did not abandon her."

"Perhaps she agreed, but someone else did not. I prefer to consider all evidence before I exclude anyone."

"Of course," Smolensky said. He did not appear to be offended in the least by Poirot's words. "I can locate her name and address, if you wish."

"Please," Poirot said pleasantly. "Would you also be so kind as to show us the grounds and house? I am curious about your fine estate and this maze of yours."

"Certainly," Smolensky said. "I adore this place, and I love to show it off."

Smolensky was rightfully proud of his estate. The gardens were a marvel of horticultural architecture, and the maze was as I imagined a hedge maze to be when I was a child. I was fascinated by the maze, and only Poirot's insistence that we tour the house drew me away.

The house was equally grand, if just as crowed with treasures as Smolensky's office. During our tour, Smolensky stated that he had invited some members of a club in London to the party. The name of the club meant nothing to me, but Poirot's expression lightened with amusement. Several of these men arrived as we were being shown around Smolensky's estate, and I could at once see why Poirot was so amused. They were much younger than Smolensky, and seemed out of place in light of his seriousness.

Poirot and I retired to dress for dinner. Our bedrooms adjoined each other, and while Poirot's was dark and somber, my bedroom was light blue and most pleasant. The bedclothes were soft, the bed comfortable, and the view out of the window displayed picturesque countryside. I could almost forget that we were in Smolensky's house to prevent a crime.

I dressed for dinner, taking care with my appearance. I did not wish to upset Poirot with an uneven collar or missing cuff link.

We went down together. Poirot and I were introduced to the other members of the party, including several men and women from London and an especially dour fellow called Beadsley, who was the brother that Smolensky mentioned earlier.

Beadsley glanced suspiciously at me when I asked him how well he knew Smolensky, and murmured, "Not well," before scuttling off to the drinks cabinet. I shrugged at Poirot, and was rewarded with a commiserating look.

One chap began to play the piano, and I wandered over to him. "I say," I said, when he gave me a happy grin. "You're a marvel at that piano."

"Thank you," he replied, stopping long enough to shake my hand. "Bertie Wooster," he said by way of introduction.

"Captain Arthur Hastings," I replied.

He looked surprised, and said, "The writer?"

I nodded, blushing a bit.

"You write about Hercule Poirot, don't you? I bally well enjoy your stories."

Wooster's enthusiasm was infectious, and I was pleased to meet someone who was so effusive with their praise. The way Poirot complains about my stories, one is excused in thinking that they are absolute tripe.

"Thank you," I said, feeling pleased with myself. "It's always nice to meet a fellow connoisseur of mystery novels."

Poirot stood next to me, and Wooster quickly rose from the piano bench. "Monsieur Poirot?"

" _Oui_ ," Poirot replied.

Wooster began to heap praise on Poirot, who seemed both amused and pleased. I was quite proud of my friend. Despite the arrogance that Poirot sometimes displayed, he genuinely deserved whatever praise he received.

My attention, however, was caught by an unexpected presence. Jeeves was standing across the room. His eyes met mine, and I could see that he was just as shocked as I was. It was then that I remembered the name of Jeeves' employer, Bertram Wooster.

"Hastings?" Poirot said, bringing my attention back to him. He glanced curiously between myself and Jeeves, and I hoped that my expression held no more than recognition.

Wooster motioned for Jeeves to come over, indicating that he wanted another drink. I said, "Poirot, this is Reginald Jeeves. I think I might have told you about him. He was my batman during the war."

Wooster seemed shocked by this. "You fought in the Great War, Jeeves?"

"I did, sir," Jeeves replied, his tone of voice indicating that this was not a proper topic to pursue.

"Ah, yes," Poirot said, "the ardent letter-writer."

At this moment I became aware of apprehension, but I was unsure from whom it emanated. Poirot and Jeeves seemed to size up each other while Wooster looked on obliviously.

"I was not expecting your presence, sir," Jeeves said to me.

Poirot replied, "We are here on business." Poirot's glance told me not to add anything else.

Wooster looked excited. "Are you here to solve a mystery?"

"Perhaps," Poirot said enigmatically.

"How thrilling!" Wooster said. "I am sure Jeeves can assist you, if you need it, Monsieur Poirot. He is the most brilliant man I know. It's all that fish he eats."

"Thank you," Poirot replied kindly, "but I prefer to use my little grey cells on my own."

Jeeves did not need to say a thing in order to convey his skepticism. I bristled a bit in defense of my friend.

It was beginning to look as though Poirot and Jeeves would start a contest of wills, but then the dinner gong sounded, and we went to the dining room.

During the course of the evening, I wrote a note for Jeeves and slipped it into his jacket pocket as he was serving the drinks. When next we were close, Jeeves murmured, "The gazebo, sir."

I nodded. A quick glance relieved my suspicions that anyone had been listening to us. I looked to Poirot, but he had his back to us. I felt guilty for my subterfuge, but also an inconvenient stab of desire at the elegance of Poirot's bearing. I shook off my desire, and turned to a young fellow who introduced himself as Bingo Little. What a curious name!

 

My heart beat faster as I left the house than night. It was not my normal practice to go walking late at night in an area with which I was unfamiliar, but I wished to speak to Jeeves alone and without the threat of someone overhearing.

Jeeves had specified the gazebo for comfort and because there were no places one could hide and listen to our conversation. The air was chilly, and I rubbed my hands together. I wish I had remembered to bring my gloves, but I had been too nervous to remain in my room.

Soon Jeeves arrived, and he directed me to an area of the gazebo which hid us in the shadows. I leaned forward, and gave him a welcoming kiss. He responded for a few seconds, and then pulled away reluctantly, his hands on my shoulders. I rested my hands on his thighs, rubbing them slowly.

"I've missed you, Reg," I whispered. I leaned forward again to kiss him, but his arms held me in place.

"I have missed you, too, sir," he replied, and I wondered why he was behaving so stiffly.

"Not 'sir', Reggie. Not here." A brief flash of pain in his eyes alarmed me, but before I could speak, he rested a finger against my lips.

"I must tell you what has happened since we parted," Jeeves said.

I was confused because his last letter indicated nothing of concern. For the first time I began to realize that what I was about to hear I would not like.

"My situation has changed, sir." Jeeves paused for a long moment, and then continued. "After I returned to Mr. Wooster's flat, I continued to think about your offer of travel. I said nothing to my employer, but I believe that he sensed my restlessness."

"He didn't sack you, did he? That blackguard…" I started to speak, but Jeeves shook his head.

"Mr. Wooster did not dispense with my services. He first offered me a raise, which I did not accept. Then late in the evening…"

My mouth fell open; I probably looked like an idiot, but this was most assuredly something I did not wish to hear nor did I ever expect to hear it from this man.

"Sir, he confessed his love to me," Jeeves said, and by his expression I could tell that he had accepted. His expression pleaded for understanding, but I could not bear it.

I shoved his hands from my shoulders and stood up. "How long, Reg? How long have you played me a fool?" Jeeves was stunned by my anger. I had never lost my composure before in his presence. "Was I not good enough for you? Did you run right home into his arms after I left and…"

Jeeves stood up, and grabbed my arms roughly. His eyes flashed an ice blue, and for a moment I felt fearful of him. "Last night, sir!" he nearly shouted.

For a moment we paused, waiting to hear if anyone was approaching. We had grown progressively louder during our argument.

Jeeves' grip on my arms loosened, and I could tell that there would be bruises. I shook from my unexpected emotional outburst, and when the anger departed, black sadness filled the void.

"It happened last night. I intended to tell you as soon as I could. I never wished to hurt you or betray your trust, Arthur. Truly I did not wish it." His voice once more became pleading.

I felt sick. I did not know what to say to him. I thought that the invisible presence during our time together had been Poirot, but I had not realized the depth of Jeeves' feelings for his employer.

I sat back down on the bench. Jeeves came closer to me, but I waved him away. "Please," I whispered, "let me be for now."

"Arthur," he said, but I shook my head sharply.

"I guess it's 'sir' now," I replied, thinking of our initial conversation on the beach at Brighton. I meant it to hurt, and I was sickened by my dark pleasure when Jeeves flinched.

I kept the wobble from my voice when I next spoke, but I did not hide the bitterness. "I shall forgive you, Jeeves, - I forgive everyone eventually - but not now. I think you owe me a few days at least."

"Yes, sir," he whispered. His hand brushed my hair gently, and I tried my best not to flinch.

"I'll find my own way back," I said by way of dismissal. I was piqued by his disapproving look, and he had the good grace to depart.

I am unsure how long I sat upon the bench, but I was thoroughly cold by the time I returned to the house. I tiptoed past Poirot's bedroom and into my own. After changing into my pajamas, I curled up under the blankets.

I told myself that the Hastings men do not cry. It was a mantra that I had often told myself during and after the war, and the voice that I heard was my father's. On the other hand, the man who said it was dead. He cried over the loss of our family fortune, and then shot himself. I reasoned that if he could cry over something as cold as money, why should I not cry over love? After all, love is more important than money.

I buried my head underneath my pillow, and cried until I had exhausted myself. Despite my exhaustion, sleep never came, and I arose early the next morning. I showered, dressed, and went into the library. I picked out a book, and tried to read, but my attention wandered. I was staring out of the window when Poirot found me.

"Hastings," Poirot asked, voice full of concern, "are you feeling unwell?"

"I am fine, Poirot," I replied, looking up at him. Poirot stared at me as if waiting for me to say more, but I had nothing to add that would not give away the entire story.

"Breakfast is being served," he continued, his voice softening ever so slightly. "Let us partake and then discuss business with Mr. Smolensky."

I stood, and followed Poirot to the dining room. My steps slowed when I found Wooster at the breakfast table. He waved us over, and I smiled wanly. The last thing I wanted to do was eat and engage in pleasantries with my love rival.

I am sure that I must have confused Poirot to no end with my lack of enthusiasm. Last night I had enjoyed Wooster's company, but now it seemed like another knife in the back.

Poirot conversed with Wooster while I remained silent. I poked at my eggs, my appetite non-existent. Jeeves entered through a side door in order to assist with the buffet, and seemed taken aback that we were seated at the same table.

I resolutely ignored him, and instead concentrated on my coffee. At the earliest polite moment I excused myself. I asked one of the maids about Smolensky, and was told that he had not yet come down for breakfast.

I stood in the corridor, feeling lost and out of sorts. I am unsure how long I stood there when I heard a woman's scream. It was the maid with whom I had just spoken. I reached her at the same time as the butler, and we both stopped in our tracks.

In his office Smolensky lay dead on the floor.

 

I told a loitering servant to fetch Poirot, and then stood outside the closed door, making sure that no one disturbed the scene.

Poirot arrived promptly. One glance at me must have told him what happened. He muttered some unhappy French, and entered the room.

Poirot looked over the dead man. "I have asked the butler to telephone the police," I said.

Poirot nodded, his attention returning to Smolensky and the surrounding area. When I glanced back, I could see Wooster glancing curiously through the entryway. I closed the door firmly before he could say anything.

Smolensky was lying on his side on the floor, his right hand crossed over his body, and his right leg resting on his left. The gun was near his fingers, as if he had dropped it himself.

"It looks like suicide," I said. I turned to see the bullet hole in the wall behind me. There was blood sprinkled liberally in that direction.

"Yes," Poirot said, his expression keen. I knew that he saw more than I could see, and so I waited for him to continue. "It might also be murder."

"Or an accident," I said but not with much surety. "The gun is at his right hand. Was he right-handed?"

Poirot glanced to the desk, and I could see immediately that the items on the desk were arranged neatly in place in such a way as to be convenient for a left-handed person. Such a mistake had been made before by murderers.

" _Bon_ ," Poirot said. "He was not right-handed."

Poirot inspected the desk, but was careful not to move anything. After taking care that I did not step onto blood, I sat down next to the window. It was a peaceful view, and I directed my attention to the birds chirping away at a fountain. I was in no mood to investigate the death of Mr. Smolensky, and I was just as happy to leave Poirot to it.

"Hastings?" Poirot said.

I turned to him, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the opening of the door. We both turned to see two police officers enter, followed by a gentleman whom I could tell in an instant was the inspector.

Poirot turned and bowed politely.

"Mr. Poirot? I'm Inspector Bark. I was told you were already here."

"I am Hercule Poirot," Poirot said, and shook the inspector's hand. "This is my associate, Captain Arthur Hastings."

I shook the inspector's hand, and we greeted each other politely.

"How did you get here so quickly, Mr. Poirot?" The inspector asked.

"Monsieur Smolensky believed that his life was in danger, and he requested our presence at a soiree he was giving last night."

The inspector hummed, and looked down at the body. "At first glance I would say this looked like suicide."

Poirot nodded. The inspector continued, "But your presence suggests otherwise."

Poirot informed the inspector about his evidence so far. The inspector was respectful of Poirot's evidence, and asked Poirot to continue his investigation.

 

I needed some time to collect myself and think, and so after lunch I decided to investigate the hedge maze. Poirot and the inspector were busy interviewing the staff, and I felt that my presence was unnecessary. I did not enjoy this feeling, and I hoped that a brisk walk and some light exercise might calm my emotions.

The afternoon was cool and slightly damp. Birds chirped in the distance, and I felt calmed by their song.

I began at the southern entrance of the maze and took a meandering path. Helpful markers indicated the way one should turn in order to follow the maze to its conclusion.

I felt absolutely awful after last night, and I knew that I should speak to Jeeves soon about what had happened. I knew that he had not deliberately endeavored to hurt me. It was obvious that Jeeves retained a deep love for his employer, and having been given the chance to obtain this ideal love, I had been hurt in the process.

This humiliation was not unfamiliar to me. I had often been overlooked as a partner by both women and men. Worse was the woman who became interested in me, only to withdraw when a more interesting man came along. I had long come to expect such things in my romantic relationships, but I had not expected it from Jeeves. I knew he was like me; I knew that he would never marry, except perhaps for convenience or to escape accusations.

As I pondered my situation, I could hear faint crying. My first thought was of the little girl who had been lost, and I shivered. The idea of a ghost was silly, and I chastised myself for being so ridiculous.

I followed the sound, and was relieved to see that one of the maids was crying. It was the same maid who had found Smolensky's body.

"Are you all right?" I asked, stopping where I was.

She sniffled, using her apron to dry away her tears. "I am, sir. Sorry, sir. I shouldn't be out like this."

She was a pretty girl, if a bit plain and common. Her northern accent was pronounced due to her emotions.

"Don't worry," I said. "I won't tell anyone. You should be allowed, after all. It must have been a shock this morning, finding him, that is."

"More than a shock, sir," she replied. When she looked up, her eyes were reddening and filling with tears. "More than that."

I am sure that I must have been gaping for a moment, but the hysterical tone and slight swelling of an ordinarily thin girl completed the story.

"You had better speak to Poirot," I said, feeling protective of the girl. I took her gently by the arm, and led her to the house.

We found Poirot discussing the case with the inspector. Poirot turned to me, his expression curious. I spoke encouragingly to the young lady, and guided her to Poirot.

"I discovered her in the maze," I murmured to Poirot. "She is very upset."

Poirot nodded, and courteously led the maid to a chair. I was always amazed by how charming and gentle Poirot could be with women. He had referred to himself as Papa Poirot before, and while I never thought of him as father-like, I could see how others might. Poirot had often mentioned, especially at moments when I failed to do so, how much he understood the feminine mind.

Lily Smith was her name, and her story was one which has been told thousands of times by other ladies. A handsome, dashing and worldly man paid his attentions to a country maiden. She succumbed, and he took what he wished. The maid was firm in her belief that her master was going to marry her, but I could see that both the inspector and Poirot were skeptical.

"You must not over-excite yourself, mademoiselle. It would not be good for the baby. Please, rest, and we shall speak again later."

Another maid led her away, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder in what I suppose was an attempt at comfort. I could not help but be shocked by Smolensky's cad-like behavior, but Poirot took it in stride as he always did.

Inspector Bark said, "That adds a complication to the investigation. Perhaps a jealous husband or an angry father killed him."

"Perhaps," Poirot said, unconvinced. "I suggest that we wait before drawing any conclusion until we have interviewed the other guests and the staff."

Poirot and the inspector began to interview the staff, but they could add little to what we already knew. For efficiency's sake, we then decided to split up preliminary interviews of the guests. Mercifully Poirot gave the inspector Wooster and his manservant to interview. I was unsure if Poirot knew anything of my upset or it had been mere fortune.

Poirot interviewed several members of the Drones Club, and a sillier bunch of young men one could never hope to meet elsewhere. They all agreed, however, that they barely knew Smolensky. They were friends with another young man nicknamed Tango, who was the brother of Rodger Beadsley, the dour and silent man from last night's party.

Finally we interviewed a chap called Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright. Until this moment, I had remained fairly silent during the interviews. Poirot tended to take charge anyway, but I felt little inclined to add any questions due to a peculiar sadness that would not leave me. Potter-Pirbright, however, was a fellow with whom I could really enjoy a chat. He was an actor on the stage, and so he was very charismatic and amusing. I spoke about my friend who was a cinema director, and we talked for a few minutes about the differences between theater and cinema acting before Poirot drew the conversation back to the murder.

I remained silent once Potter-Pirbright left the sitting room. Poirot stood by the window, and I came up behind him. Not for the first time I wondered what Poirot saw with those dark eyes of his. Sometimes I wished that I could see what he saw.

"I find it most curious, Hastings," Poirot said, pointing out of the window. Before us was the maze, and I could discern where the beginning and ending was from our height.

"What do you find curious, Poirot?"

"Do you not see the disorder among the bushes?"

I looked more closely, and there was an untidiness that marred the careful lines of the maze. "Perhaps they haven't yet been pruned?" I said, becoming intrigued despite my sadness.

"Let us see for ourselves what has caused the disarray."

I smiled, and said, imitating him, "And perhaps we shall find a clue, yes? The ash of a cigarette?"

"You are gaining your spirit back. That is good!" He took my arm at the elbow and directed me to the door. The heaviness I had been carrying around since last night lightened when I saw the pleasure in his eyes at my teasing.

Despite his initial curiosity, Poirot did not seem as intent to study the bushes once we were outside. I could see no reason why the bushes were scuffed, and after a pleasant walk we returned to the house.

 

After the inspector finished his own interviews, Poirot and he compared notes. I felt more inclined to add my own opinions at this time. Poirot's expression of fondness for me and his willingness to indulge my curiosity warmed my spirits, and I felt that the sadness was no longer a heavy burden but more of a dull ache.

The inspector left shortly before dinner, but promised to return in the morning with autopsy reports and any other news that he might have.

Dinner was a somber affair, or as somber as it could be with such a boisterous group of young men at hand. Poirot was sitting to my left, and Wooster had switched the cards so that he was sitting to my right. I felt less resentful, but I was not yet ready to forgive him. Of course I knew that this affair was not his fault, but I was not feeling up to charitableness that evening. Nevertheless, I was able to converse pleasantly with him and answer his questions about murders and writing mysteries.

Once dinner was over, I spent some time talking with Potters-Pirbright. He was more mature than the other members of the Drones Club, and I felt more comfortable (and less old) around him. It did not hurt that he was a handsome man.

Poirot was casually interviewing the people whom he had not been assigned to interview earlier in the day. Eventually I heard him discussing the art of tracking a criminal with Wooster, who had been somehow coerced by Jeeves to engage in such behavior. I wondered what the story was behind that.

 

Before I retired for the evening, I stopped in front of Poirot's bedroom. I was dressed for bed, but the need for a few words from my old friend would not let me rest.

I knocked, and when I heard him say, " _Entres_ ," I opened the door.

"I am not bothering you, am I, Poirot?" I asked, sticking my head in. Poirot was resplendent in dark silk, and when he tilted his head, his eyes shown like black pearls.

"Not at all, _mon ami_. Come, come, seat yourself." He motioned to a nearby chair, and I sat down. He chose to sit on the still made bed, a curiously casual motion that I marveled at.

"You are feeling better, Hastings?" he asked.

I nodded, aware at how vulnerable my emotional state was. "A bit," I added, needing to be as honest as I could with my dearest friend. Of course, I could not tell him everything, but I needed to feel once more at harmony with him.

"What is the matter?" Poirot asked. When I hesitated, he added gently, " _Une affaire de coeur_?"

I took a fortifying breath and nodded. I had to be careful because I knew how clever Poirot was and how he could gain the truth from an interrogation. I hated to think of myself in such a position.

"I met someone when I was on holiday in Brighton. We rekindled our romance there."

"And this person has... changed her mind?"

She, yes, a she. But there was no one in the house who would do. How could I explain that I received the news here? "Yes. She fell in love with someone else, and she telephoned to tell me."

"She telephoned you?" Poirot asked.

"Yes, well, she didn't want to carry on behind my back."

Poirot nodded, his expression thoughtful but revealing nothing. "But she was, eh, 'carrying on'?"

I nodded. "Only for a couple of days. She is a very honorable person."

Poirot's eyes flashed an angry fire, and for a moment I was startled. "Not so honorable, I think, if she treats you in such a reprehensible fashion."

I felt warmed by his regard, and I shrugged a bit. "I am no prize, Poirot. She found someone better."

"There is none better than a loyal and kind friend, Hastings," he said, both admonishing and praising me at the same time.

"Thank you, Poirot," I said, trying not to blush. We were both silent for a moment, and then I asked, "How did you know?"

Poirot's smile was paternal, but there was also a hint of sadness. Perhaps this was due to his own experience with love. I tried not to feel jealousy at the thought. It was not my place; he was not mine.

"The walls are thin, Hastings, and perhaps too is the pillow."

I flushed with embarrassment. "Oh lord," I murmured.

"And then when I wake to find my normally ravenous friend with no appetite for either food or crime looking pale and sad, I knew that this was due to more than just a lovely woman with the auburn hair."

I felt a prick of tears, but blinked them away. "Yes, well," I said, unsure of what I should say. "I shall feel better shortly," I finished rather half-heartedly.

"I do not doubt you, Hastings." Poirot rose, and rested a hand on my shoulder. We always stood so close to each other, but there were few times when we every directly touched. I held back a shiver at the feel of his broad hand. It was warm and comforting, and had I not an iron-tight grip on my wits, I would have rested my cheek against it. Instead, I daringly placed my right hand over his for a moment.

"Thank you, Poirot," I said, simply.

I wonder what he was in my eyes because he nodded slightly, and squeezed my shoulder.

" _Je t'en prie_ ," he murmured.

I removed my hand, and stood up. Poirot's hand fell away, but it remained within easy reach. I must admit that I was tempted, but I did not wish to take a chance and force him away from me.

"Good night, Poirot," I said with more emotion in my voice than was outwardly warranted.

"Good night, _mon ami_ ," Poirot replied.

It was difficult to leave him, but I managed. As I lay in my bed that evening, I was grateful that Poirot had taken my words without question, although the falsehood filled me with guilt. Tonight I was reminded that Poirot loved me, even if it was merely the love of a stalwart friend. I would not trade one afternoon of reading the paper by Poirot's side for a thousand sultry nights with a lover.

I also knew that I had forgiven Jeeves. I had not thought about how my relationship with Jeeves would have taken me from Poirot's side. If we had gone on my fantasy holiday, I would have missed Poirot and our life together. In addition, my desire to travel would have kept Jeeves from his own love's side. We might have come to dislike each other because we kept hidden the truth of our hearts. No, tomorrow I would go to Jeeves and tell him that I forgave him. I hoped that we could remain friends.

Having decided these things, I fell into a restive sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations:
> 
> Ça va – Okay  
> Entres – Enter!  
> Une affaire de Coeur – An affair of the heart; a love affair  
> Je t'en prie – You're welcome. (Implies that the speaker really means it.)


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning I felt in top form, and ate a hearty breakfast. Poirot seemed pleased that I was once more myself, and I settled back at his side as if yesterday had been a bad dream.

We talked to a few of the servants, but no one had any information to add. Poirot asked for Jeeves, and we waited for him in the library. I was grateful that Poirot had decided not to question Jeeves yesterday, but I was prepared now to face him.

Jeeves appeared before us, and I was shocked to see how pale he was. I could tell that he was reluctant to continue with me in the room. Poirot did not seem to take note of Jeeves' discomfort or if he did, he dismissed it.

"It's all right, Jeeves," I said, trying to reassure him. "Poirot just wants to ask you a few questions about yesterday."

Jeeves nodded, and relaxed a little. Poirot gave me a look which I could not decipher.

"Mr. Jeeves, where were you when the body was found?"

"I was in Mr. Wooster's bedroom, sir, ironing his shirts."

"You were not in the kitchen assisting with breakfast?"

"No, sir. Additional staff were not needed."

"I see. And where were you last night?"

I felt a tightness in my stomach at Poirot's question, although I am sure that my face showed nothing more than usual.

Jeeves spoke calmly, "After seeing to Mr. Wooster, I returned to the kitchen. Nothing needed to be done, so I decided on an evening stroll. There were some moorhens singing last night, and I wished to observe them. I returned to my room a quarter past midnight."

"And you saw nothing while you were out?" Poirot asked.

Jeeves hesitated, and then said, "As I was returning to the servants' quarters, sir, I observed the maid – Miss Lily – in her dressing gown. She was returning from the master's bedroom, I suspect."

Poirot nodded, his expression troubled. I blushed, and murmured, "Good lord."

"And you saw no one else?" Poirot asked.

"No, sir."

"And this morning?"

"I assisted Mr. Wooster with dressing. Once I ascertained that I was not needed in the kitchen or the dining room, I returned to Mr. Wooster's bedroom."

Poirot nodded, and I could see a gleam in his eyes that was familiar to me. Poirot had just received another clue to the mystery.

"Thank you, Mr. Jeeves. You have been most helpful."

This gave Jeeves pause, and even I was not sure what had been helpful to Poirot. Jeeves bowed slightly, and said, "Very good, sir."

After Jeeves left, Poirot turned to me, and said, "He is lying, Hastings."

"Lying?" I said, fear rising within me. I remained calm, though, and laughed slightly. "Lying about what? Why would Jeeves lie to you?"

"I am not sure, Hastings, but I know that he is lying."

"How do you know?" I asked.

Poirot's gaze met mine, and I felt trapped, unable to move away. I could write sonnets about Poirot's eyes. Especially now they held a terrible power over me.

"He told me so himself, Hastings," Poirot replied. He seemed to look for something in my expression, and unsatisfied, he turned away.

I felt such a loss that I nearly gasped out loud. Then I cursed myself a fool because of my vivid imagination.

As we were leaving the library, we chanced to discover Beadsley standing in front of the office doors. He was startled by our approach, and looked ready to bolt, but Poirot stopped him with a friendly gesture.

"Ah, Mr. Beadsley, can I have a word with you?"

"Er, yes, you may," he replied.

Poirot motioned for us to return to the library, and sat down in the armchair he had recently vacated. Beadsley sat as directed, and I stood by the bookcase, waiting to see what happened. Something about Beadsley's character unnerved me. He had the air of one who was uneasy in polite society. If it were simply remnants of the war, I would have sympathized, but it was more an inborn quality than a reaction to horrible events, or so it seemed to me.

"How do you know Mr. Smolensky?" Poirot asked.

"Not very well," Beadsley replied. "My brother goes to the same club he does, and so I had heard about him often."

"And the first time you met Mr. Smolensky?"

"Yesterday when my brother Thadius introduced us."

"Thadius?" I asked, unfamiliar with a person here by that name.

"Err, yes, well, the Drones all call him 'Tango'," Smolensky replied.

"I see," I said, revising my earlier conclusion that Tango was an odd name. It was preferable to Thadius.

"I remember meeting him," Poirot interjected. "He is a member of the Drones Club, too."

"Yes, although I can't see why. They're a bunch of silly asses," Beadsley spoke with harsh vehemence, and I was surprised. Silly, yes, but insults were uncalled for.

"You do not approve?" Poirot asked.

Beadsley hesitated, and then said, "It's not up to me to say one way or the other. They are his friends, and I stay well away from them." He leaned forward, and said, as if in confidence, "They like to steal things."

"Steal things?" Poirot said, interest piqued.

"Yes, hats, animals, figurines. They even stole a moose once."

Poirot's look of confusion made me laugh. Jeeves had told me the story behind the stuffed moose theft, and it was a lost less sinister than Beadsley was describing it. Beadsley gave me a look that I can only describe as furious.

"It's a game," I explained to Poirot. "In certain clubs you have to do something in order to get in. Usually it is a harmless task like collecting three ceramic cherubs or four cats and a fish."

"Harmless?" Beadsley exclaimed. "It's theft!"

"Well, yes, but they only steal from each other, it seems. It's just a bit of a laugh."

"Some laugh," Beadsley said, bitterness clear in his countenance.

Poirot gave me a look that told me to stop explaining, and then said to Beadsley, "Have these young men stolen something from you?"

Beadsley's expression changed at once. "No," he said, which was so obvious a lie that even I was in no doubt. "Nothing."

Poirot looked at him as if to say, "Are you sure?" and Beadsley replied, "I told you that I keep to myself where the Drones are concerned. Silly asses, all of them!"

Poirot nodded. "Why did you agree to come here, Mr. Beadsley, if you did not know your host and the guests would be from a club which you dislike?"

Beadsley said, "My brother asked me. He said that he had a surprise."

Poirot asked, "Did you like Mr. Smolensky when you met him?"

Beadsley replied, "Not particularly. He had that gaudiness and air of disrespect that I abhor in foreigners."

"You do not like foreigners?" Poirot asked.

"Only the ones who come over here and buy up perfectly English country estates. Showing off money, Monsieur Poirot, is what killed that man. Mark my words!"

I could tell that Poirot found his words distasteful, and I was a bit embarrassed by how typically English Beadsley sounded.

"Thank you, Mr. Beadsley. You have been most helpful," Poirot said with excessive politeness.

Beadsley paused, as if unsure how he had been helpful, and then murmured, "You're welcome." He scuttled out of the room.

Poirot's expression was thoughtful after Beadsley departed. I sat down opposite him once more and said, "He's lying." I hoped that perhaps Beadsley's obvious lies and guilty behavior would turn Poirot's attention away from Jeeves, would could not possibly be involved with the murder but whose secrets were of a personal nature.

Poirot replied, " _Oui_ , that is clear." Poirot turned his attention to me, and said, "What did you think of him, _mon ami_?"

I thought for a moment, and replied, "I think he very may well be the killer."

Poirot tilted his head, and said, "Why do you think so?"

"Well… he hates foreigners, and it's obvious he's a little jealous of Smolensky's wealth."

"I fear that abstract hatred and jealousy are not a strong enough motive in this case. What did you think of Beadsley as a man?"

My expression, I fear, adequately described my distaste for the man because Poirot chuckled. I thrilled at his warm expression for a moment, and then said, "Something about the man disturbs me, Poirot. I cannot say what, but I don't trust him."

"He has something of the fox about him, yes?"

I nodded. "Something about his character."

Poirot was about to speak when we heard a knock on the door. At Poirot's answer, a maid stepped in to announce Inspector Bark.

There was little that the inspector could tell us which we did not already know from observation of the crime scene. The most important information he divulged to us was the time of death, which was between 2 and 5 am. During my meeting with Jeeves, I had heard nothing out of the ordinary, but of course I could not tell Poirot that.

 

I returned to my room to dress for dinner, and was surprised to find Jeeves there. I locked the door, and turned to him.

"Jeeves, what's wrong?" I asked.

Jeeves was still pale, and looked about as nervous as I've seen him since the war. I doubt anyone else would notice, but I could see the signs.

"Mr. Wooster found your note, sir, the one in which you requested to see me. He has discerned the nature of our previous relationship."

I did not ask how. "Surely he does not expect you to have no experience."

"No, sir," Jeeves said, and I swear that he blushed ever so slightly. "Mr. Wooster was sympathetic until he asked out of curiosity how long our relationship had been and when our relationship ended."

I winced, able to see the problem. Then my breath caught, and I said hurriedly, "He wouldn't say anything to anyone, would he?"

"No, sir, he would not. He did, however, become agitated. My actions were..."

"Dishonorable?" I asked, remembering Poirot's words from last night.

Jeeves twitched, but to his credit he agreed. "It was more than dishonorable, sir. I injured someone who has never done me any harm."

I could not let him continue. "I forgive you, Reggie. I understand why it happened. I understand, and I forgive you."

Jeeves seemed to deflate a bit, and he lost his expressionless mask. "Thank you, Arthur," he said, the relief clear in his eyes.

"Why have you come to me? How can I help you?"

"I wished to speak to someone who would be trustworthy and understand my predicament. You are... also more capable than I of dealing with emotions."

Jeeves was right about that. He had a distaste of hysterics and violence, and during the war he was repeatedly shaken by such and prone to bouts of quietude. I think that this is part of why we got on so well. Outwardly my manner was jovial and friendly, even when I was scared or in pain. I remained calm, and so did Jeeves. I was the one who was called when one of our contingents became caught up in hysterics because I was able to calm him down so quickly.

"I hardly doubt that Mr. Wooster will wish to talk to me. Perhaps he doubts your regard or that our relationship is over."

Jeeves sighed. I heard Poirot's door shut next to us, and I motioned for Jeeves to lower his voice. "If that is the case, Arthur," Jeeves said softly, "then Mr. Wooster will listen only to you."

I thought for a moment. "After dinner then," I replied softly. "I shall talk with him."

"Thank you, sir," Jeeves answered.

Once Jeeves departed, I wondered into what new trouble I had gotten myself.

 

At dinner Wooster was unusually quiet, and he met my eyes with difficulty. I felt sorry for the young man, who did nothing more harmful than fall in love with Jeeves. I was also aware that Poirot was curious, but I was unable to ascertain what he knew without the risk of revelation. The other guests seemed unaware of our little drama, and instead occupied themselves with conversation about the present mystery. Poirot added little hints to their theories. He adored the attention, and I felt a modicum of guilt because my own attention was elsewhere.

When we retired to the drawing room for brandy, I tried to approach Wooster, but he was in conversation with another young gentleman. I spoke with Potters-Pirbright for a time, trying to keep my eye on both Poirot and Wooster. When about an hour had passed, I spied Wooster leaving the room. Poirot was engaged in a discussion with the inspector. I excused myself quietly, and slipped away to follow Wooster.

Wooster departed through a pair of double doors into the garden, and I proceeded through them, anticipating that now would be the most appropriate time to speak with him. I stopped, however, when I saw Beadsley follow Wooster. His step was cautious and secretive, and I immediately became suspicious as to his motives. In my mind, he was the murderer, although Poirot seemed not to agree.

I considered alerting Poirot before I pursued them, but that would take too much time, and if Wooster were in danger, I would rather assist him. I pursued Beadsley as quietly as I could. His course led us around the maze and into the wooded area which surrounded the estate. Wooster was leaning against a tree, his body displaying his desolation for all to see. He looked up as Beadsley approached, and said, "Why here?"

Beadsley smiled at him, and said, "Because I wanted a quiet chat with you, Bertie. You have something that is mine."

Wooster's head snapped back a bit. He was obviously confused. "I have? What is it?"

Beadsley's voice turned sharp as he said, "You know very well what I mean. The book!"

"Book? _Murder at the Vicarage_ is all I have now, and-"

Beadsley grabbed Wooster, and pushed him against the tree. Beadsley shook him in anger, and I edged closer, hoping to hear more before I stepped in. Poirot needed evidence, and I was in a position to provide it.

"Sasha's diary! You have it! You or that nosy valet of yours. I need that diary!"

Sasha Smolensky's papers had been untouched, or so we thought, and so no one had bothered to look for a diary.

"I swear," Wooster said, his voice shaking, "I don't have his bally diary. I barely knew the chap. Why would I have it? And if Jeeves had it, he would have turned it over to the police."

"I think you're lying," Beadsley said, and he pressed his arm against Wooster's throat.

I stepped out from my hiding place. Beadsley was so intent upon Wooster that I was easily able to step up behind him and wrench him from Wooster's person.

"What the devil is going on here?" I asked, although I already knew quite a lot. I hoped that Beadsley would assume that I just happened by.

"Nothing that concerns you, Captain," Beadsley said.

All might have been well and Beadsley distracted if Wooster had not said at that moment, "His diary. He wants Sasha Smolensky's diary."

"You stupid idiot!" Beadsley shouted. From his pocket he pulled a small gun, the sort that a woman might carry, which was useless for long-range shooting but would be lethal at close range.

I was already pushing Wooster into a run by the time Beadsley had removed his hand from his pocket. "Hurry!" I shouted, grabbing Wooster's arm as we both ran.

We followed the outside of the maze until an entrance presented itself. I motioned with my arm to indicate that we should enter. I hoped that my previous exploration of the maze would keep us from getting lost, but I could not help but remember the little girl whose exploration had been fatal.

Wooster and I stopped for a moment to catch our breath and to determine where Beadsley was. He was close behind, and I knew that we would have to lose him soon or trick him into a dead end and somehow trap him.

I knew exactly where we were until Beadsley shot through the hedge. The shot was much too close, and Wooster in his panic ran in the opposite direction. Before I could stop him, Beadsley had rounded a corner, and we could not double back.

Wooster whispered, "I'm sorry."

I whispered back, "It will be all right."

We encountered a dead end not long after, but Beadsley did not know because he was running at full speed towards us. I pushed Wooster against the hedge, and caught Beadsley as he tried to stop. We both fell and hit the grass.

In the distance I could hear my name being called. Poirot and Jeeves were searching for us. Wooster shouted in response, and Beadsley pointed the gun at him.

I reached up and pulled the gun down in time for it to go off harmlessly into the ground. "Damn you," Beadsley said, his voice harsh with anger.

We struggled for the gun. I hesitated to tell Wooster to go for help because I did not wish to draw Beadsley's attention to him but also I did not think that Wooster knew the way out. I was doing rather well until my hand, which had become muddy from the struggle, slipped. The gun discharged, and I could feel a burning sensation in my side.

The pain intense, and for a moment I was only able to remember the other time I had been shot. I had been able only to lie there, stuck in the barbed wire, and wait for a German to kill me with another bullet.

Suddenly Beadsley was knocked from off of me. Wooster hit him hard with a nearby brick. I would have been more relieved had Wooster not hit him in the direction opposite where I had been shot. As Beadsley fell, his knee dug into my side. This time I screamed at the pain, and blackness overcame me. In the distance I could hear Poirot shout my name.

When I came to, Wooster was kneeling above me. The entire area was muddy where we had struggled and torn up the wet grass. Wooster's hands were shaking as he held a handkerchief to my side. His face was red, but he was holding back his tears.

"You're alive," he said, voice trembling. "I thought…"

"No, I'll be all right," I whispered, feeling dizzy and nauseous. "Poirot…" I wanted to ask where he was, but I could say no more without creating an unsightly scene, and Wooster looked disturbed enough.

"They're coming. They can't find us in this awful maze."

"Stand up, and wave to them. Jump if you have to."

"But you're bleeding. I have to stop the bleeding."

I smiled at him as reassuringly as I could. Wooster's handkerchief was small and only covered the entry wound. "I'm bleeding beneath me as well. We need them to call for a doctor and the police."

Wooster went white in the face, but he did as I told him. He stood up and waved his hands, jumping up and down, and shouting. He then began to rattle the bushes in front of him, which apparently drew more attention to our position because I could hear Jeeves shout, "I see you, sir!"

Hours seemed to pass before Jeeves and Poirot rounded the nearby corner of the maze, but of course it was mere minutes. Jeeves' face paled when he saw us, and he hurried over to my side. Poirot followed behind him, his expression as alarmed as I have ever seen it.

"Hastings!" he said, his eyes taking in the torn grass and mud, Beadsley, and whatever else that great brain of his saw. He eyed the mud nervously for a moment before making a decision and kneeling in the mud by my uninjured side. Jeeves was already inspecting my wound.

"What happened, Hastings?" Poirot asked, his hand taking one of mine, despite it being covered with mud.

"Oh," I said, trying to concentrate on Poirot and not on the pain. "Beadsley attacked Wooster, and then shot me." There, as much information as I could manage without making myself ill.

"He… he… he… wanted a diary," Wooster said. "He said that Sasha had one that was missing." Wooster's voice was slight and unsure, and it was obvious how scared he was. I tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but at that moment Jeeves pressed down a little too hard, and I cried out.

"Careful!" Poirot said sharply. "You do not want to push out the blood!"

"I need to search for an exit wound, sir," Jeeves replied in an icy manner. The feeling of déjà vu came over me; Jeeves had tended my other gunshot wound as well. "The bleeding must be stopped, but we must also make sure that no more dirt enters his wounds."

Poirot nodded sharply, which I recognized as his unwilling concession to the correct advice of another.

"Sorry about the mud, Poirot," I said, and closed my eyes. The dizziness seemed less obvious in the dark.

"No, no, no, Hastings, do not close your eyes!" Poirot said. I tried to obey him, but my eyes refused.

I must have drifted in and out of consciousness several times because I can remember the inspector running to help us. Poirot convinced Wooster to go with him and clean up. A couple of servants agreed to take charge of Beadsley until the police arrived. There was then a discussion of how best to return me to the house, although it sounded as if it were more of an argument rather than a discussion.

I was woken by a sharp jab in my side. After a few moments I realized that the swinging sensation I felt was because I was in Jeeves' arms. He was carrying me back to the house. Fortunately he was not dragging me through the mud as he had been forced to do on the battlefield.

Poirot was walking behind him, his expression full of worry and vexation. I lifted my head up so that I could look at him over Jeeves' shoulder. "Poirot," I whispered.

"Yes, _mon ami_?" Poirot replied, hurrying closer.

"It will be all right," I whispered.

Poirot smiled at me, but I could see that he was not reassured.

 

I passed out again before we arrived at the mansion. The pain made me wake at intervals, but it was so intense that I could not concentrate on anything. I remember hearing harsh words from Poirot, but I do not remember what they were or why. The doctor arrived, Jeeves left, and whatever the doctor injected me with knocked me out completely. I knew from the army that I disliked drugs; I would rather have accepted the pain.

When I woke more fully, Poirot was sitting in a chair that had been pulled next to my bed. He looked as bedraggled as I had ever seen him before. His hand held mine.

I blinked, feeling as if I were floating on the bed. "Poirot," I murmured.

Poirot's eyes fluttered open, and he sat forward quickly. " _Mon cher_ Hastings, you are awake," he replied softly but intently, his hand tightening on mine. He shifted to sit on the bed, quite close to me.

"Tired," I murmured, trying to keep my eyes open.

Poirot smiled at me, and I was touched by the relief in his eyes. His other hand reached to brush hair from my brow, his fingertips brushing against my skin. I hummed softly, my drugged mind wanting more of his touch.

"So cool," I murmured. "I feel so warm."

"You have a fever," Poirot replied, pressing the backs of his fingers against my cheek. It was a much more intimate touch than he had ever given me before, and I was sad to not be in a better state to enjoy it.

"Yes," I murmured, turning my face toward his touch. If I had been in my right mind, I would have blushed at my boldness.

"Go back to sleep, Hastings," Poirot said, his voice holding both amusement and worry.

I smiled at him before I fell asleep.

 

When I was in the army – after I was shot – the doctor and nurses discovered that I did not take kindly to pain medicine. I frequently suffered confusion and hallucinations after a dose, and when I was in my right mind, I refused anything stronger than aspirin. The throbbing of the bullet wound was much more tolerable than the recollection of my men retching from mustard gas or their guts pouring from them as they were mowed down by machine gun fire.

In my dreams the blankets were mud and the cloying smoke that always seems to smell of bitter heaviness. Everything felt damp (in reality I was sweating from the fever), and I could only hear the rushing of blood in my ears. I began to fight the mud and smoke, trying not to make a sound and alert the men to my humiliating panic or the enemy to my position. I felt a burning sensation in my side, and realized that I had been shot. I began to call for Reggie. Where was he?

I felt arms around me, and struggled against them. Someone was telling me not to move. The arms tightened, and I felt a round stomach against mine and smelled an expensive aftershave. These were things which I had never felt but of which I had often dreamed.

"Poirot?" I asked, wondering what my friend was doing in the trenches. "Poirot, what are you doing here? If the Germans find you, they will kill you."

The burning sensation in my side meant nothing to me now that my friend was in danger.

Poirot shushed me softly, his arms tightening around me. "We are safe, _mon cher ami_. You are dreaming."

"Dreaming?"

" _Oui_ , and you must not struggle so, or you will do yourself an injury."

I could not remember being shot in my side, only in my leg, but that injury felt fine. "You are safe, then?"

Poirot nodded, his cheek pressed against my forehead. "Safe, yes."

"Thank god," I said with emotion. "I don't know what I would do, Poirot…" I trailed off, hugging him tightly.

I was not sure why, but I felt some tension leave Poirot's body. He pressed a kiss to my brow, and murmured, "Nor I, _mon brave_."

My confused brain felt that we must be lovers since Poirot was holding me in such an intimate fashion. I pressed a kiss to Poirot's neck. "I love you," I whispered. I did not expect an answer; it seemed that I never did receive one.

As I drifted to sleep, I heard Poirot murmur, " _J'ai rencontré ce quelqu'un que mon coeur connaissait déjà_."

 

I woke the next morning with no immediate memory of last night's conversation. Poirot was discussing my condition with the doctor.

"Captain Hastings does not wish for the shot. It gave him the terrible dreams."

"I insist that the patient receive another dose of pain medication," the doctor said. "He must be in agony."

I woke more fully at the doctor's words, and said, "Poirot is right, doctor. I would prefer something else like aspirin."

The doctor huffed, and put away his needle. As he searched through his bag, Poirot winked at me. Despite the pain, I grinned back at him.

Poirot must have freshened up while I was asleep because aside from a hint of tiredness around his eyes, he looked as immaculate as ever. Dressed in dark browns and blues, he was extraordinarily handsome.

I felt like I was staring, and I looked down at my hands. After rolling around in the mud, being shot, and a night of sweaty nightmares, I must have looked an unattractive mess.

The doctor gave me some aspirin, grumbling all the while, and then another antibiotic shot. A maid brought up breakfast as the doctor was leaving, and I felt my stomach turn at the thought of food.

Poirot noticed my unease, and said, "You must eat, Hastings."

"I know," I replied. I was still sulking from the doctor's lecture about how I was to stay in bed and rest.

Poirot's gaze was commiserating but firm. "You must eat, Hastings, and keep up your strength."

He stood up, and put on his jacket. "Have you had breakfast yet?" I asked, hoping to share some of my meal with him.

"I have, Hastings. I wished to do so early so that I can visit Mr. Beadsley at the jail."

I dropped my uneaten toast back onto the plate. "You're leaving?" I said, upset at being left behind.

Poirot said, "I will tell you all when I return."

Poirot smiled at me, and I reluctantly smiled back. "No, you won't," I replied. "You will keep something for yourself, which you will only reveal to me when you reveal it to everyone else."

Poirot picked up the dropped toast, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed together, and I felt a tugging memory. What had I forgot last night?

"I would tell you all, Hastings, if only you would ask the proper question." He was teasing me, and after the events of the last few days, I welcomed it.

"Because you are ill, _mon brave_ Hastings, I shall tell you all upon my return… as long as you eat and rest."

I nodded, and to show him that I was intent on following his directions I took a bite of my toast. I chewed unenthusiastically; he nodded at me, and left.

 

I managed most of my breakfast, and then fell back asleep. When I woke, Poirot had not returned. I heard a knock, and called to whoever was there to enter.

I was surprised when Wooster entered. He looked scared and worried, and I felt sorry for the young man.

"Come in," I said, feeling rather amiable toward Wooster.

He nodded, and sat down in the chair next to my bed. "I came to see how you were," he said, rather more subdued than I had ever seen him before.

"Much better," I replied. "Thank you for your assistance last night."

Wooster's smile reminded me of a little boy who had just received a rare praise, and I felt an odd sense of protectiveness for him. "You're welcome, Captain. I was jolly well worried about you."

He looked at his hands, and said, "It was lucky for me that you happened by."

"I wanted to speak to you last night," I replied, glad for the opportunity to speak with Wooster. "It is about Jeeves."

His gaze grew fearful, and he said quickly, "I didn't know. I wouldn't have… er… well, you know."

He blushed a bright pink, and I was amused by how this would have been my own reaction. "I know," I replied. "I was upset, but I do not blame you. I don't really blame Jeeves anymore."

Wooster's expression was confused, and I explained, "Jeeves loves you. You mean the world to him. How could he not seize the opportunity?"

"Carpe diem," Wooster murmured, his gaze thoughtful. Thankfully his blush was dissipating, and he looked more at ease. "Then you don't… you won't… he…"

I said, "I am not going to steal him back, if that is what you are asking. He has made his choice. I hope that we shall remain friends. I missed that more than anything."

"Are you and I friends? I hope so."

Wooster seemed so eager, and I laughed. "I think so," I said, amused.

"Then call me 'Bertie'," he replied, holding out his hand for me to shake it.

I shook it, and said, "Arthur."

"Artie?"

"Er… I'd rather you didn't."

 

When Poirot returned from his errand, Wooster was telling me one of his amusing stories, thus answering my question about why Jeeves had sent Wooster to track someone – not a criminal, but a friend who was engaged to Wooster's cousin. I was grateful for the company, which kept my mind from dwelling on rather more unpleasant matters. Poirot seemed surprised to see Wooster there, but he nodded politely.

"It's nearly lunch time," Wooster said, rising from his chair. "I'll drop by later, what?"

"All right," I replied. "Thank you, Bertie, for keeping me company."

He beamed at me, and swiftly departed. I turned my attention to Poirot.

"You are better disposed toward Mr. Wooster, I see."

"Yes, he is a splendid chap, once you get to know him," I replied. "What happened with Mr. Beadsley?"

Rather than answer me, Poirot reached forward and pressed his fingers to my forehead. I felt warm, but not uncomfortably so, but I did not complain because Poirot's fingers were pleasant against my skin.

"You are feeling better?"

"Yes, much. I wish I could have accompanied you."

" _Non_ , Hastings. The doctor said you would need at least two weeks of rest before you could move."

"Two weeks? I can't stay here for two weeks." I was shocked, but not surprised. I have faced similar circumstances previously.

"Then we shall see – later – about a car."

I sighed, frustrated by my helplessness. "Well, what happened with Mr. Beadsley?"

Poirot smiled at me, and sat down in the chair. "He said that his sister had been compromised by Mr. Smolensky."

"That cad," I said forcefully, appalled that a gentleman would treat a lady in such a fashion.

Poirot's expression was amused, as it always is when I mention women. "Your friend, Jeeves, was also of assistance in my investigation, although he was not pleased."

"Then Jeeves had Smolensky's diary in his possession."

"He did. He had been asked by someone in the Home Office to retrieve the diary due to some sensitive information about a British diplomat."

"How did you know that Jeeves had the diary?"

"There were several indications, _mon ami_. If you will recall, when we first met Mr. Smolensky, you remarked on the clutter in his office."

"Yes," I said. "His desk was full of papers, and he had a dictionary open as well."

"And what did the desk look like on the morning of his murder?"

I gasped when I realized. "Smolensky's desk was neatened, and the dictionaries were put away on the shelf. Someone must have searched for the diary, and straightened the desk after they had done so."

Poirot beamed at me, and I felt a swell of pride in my breast. "I propose one further step, Hastings. I believe that two people searched the desk. The first knew not to cause unnecessary disruption of the natural order of the desk. This person found the diary, and left without disturbing anything. The second searched for the diary, did not find it, and straightened the desk so that there would be no suspicion that it was searched."

"The first person must have been Jeeves," I replied.

"I would not say 'must', Hastings, but I believe that he was the first. The second was Beadsley."

"And that was when Beadsley shot Smolensky. Did Smolensky surprise Beadsley, or did Beadsley shoot him first and then search for the diary?"

"Perhaps," Poirot replied softly. "I do not think that Beadsley shot Smolensky."

"Why not?" I asked. "He had the motive and no alibi. He was going to kill Wooster, and he shot me."

Poirot nodded, his dark eyes flashing in anger when I mentioned my injury. "I am well aware of how dangerous he is, Hastings. I do not doubt that Beadsley would kill with little remorse."

"Then why do you doubt it?"

"Something is not right, Hastings. There is something about his story and about Jeeves' story that does not ring true."

"Yesterday you said that you thought Jeeves was lying."

"Indeed, I did, and I still do. Jeeves said that he saw no one that night, and then offers me a concession - that of the young maid. He said that he wanted to hear the moorhens sing. Who, Hastings, deliberately listens to moorhens make noise, much less in the middle of the night?" His voice had become sharp as he spoke, and it was a tone that did not hesitate to fill me with excitement. However, this familiar feeling was mixed with fear. Of course, I knew very well that Jeeves had lied, but this lie had nothing to do with the case.

"Well," I said, trying to solve the matter. "Jeeves is often concerned with information that you and I might find dull or useless. The man reads Spinoza, for heaven's sake. It's just his way."

"And listening to the screeching birds is like reading philosophy."

"To me it is. I'd rather listen to the birds. And in any case, I doubt that Jeeves did more than take the diary and leave. He certainly didn't shoot Smolensky."

Poirot gave me a searching look, and for one terrible moment I thought that Jeeves was a suspect. " _Non_ , my friend, Jeeves did not shoot Smolensky."

"Then you know all you need to know about Jeeves," I replied, inwardly relieved.

" _Non_ , I do not know all, _mon ami_ ," Poirot said, gazing directly at me. I almost shivered, easily able to recognize that Poirot was determined to root out answers.

"Oh?" I asked, thinking that this had something to do with the case. "What else is there?"

Poirot kept looking at me, waiting for me to say something. I was not sure what he wanted, and I was most assuredly not going to say anything incriminating.

"I wish to know more about the relationship between you and your former batman."

I tried my best not to show anything, but I was never very good at hiding from Poirot. His demeanor demanded the truth, and it was difficult for me to refuse his demands.

"I don't know what-"

Poirot interrupted me, his voice sharp. "Come, come, Hastings! Do not play these silly games with me."

I looked down at the bedspread, unable to face Poirot. I saw his anger and sensed his frustration with me. I did not wish to lie to him, and this made my deception all the more painful to me.

He continued, "I know that you met at Brighton, that you shared a hotel room together, and that later you met in London. I know that you met three nights ago in the garden for a tête-à-tête."

My eyes closed at his words, and I felt frustrated tears rise. I despaired because I had failed to keep anything from him, from my closest friend – the man I loved – and now I would lose him.

I turned my head away from Poirot, and rested it on my bent knees; it was the only way I could tell my story to him. "We were stationed together in the Somme. He was so young, so scared because he was far from home for the first time. Even I was scared, and I had traveled quite a lot."

I remembered the nausea of shooting for the first time. The knowledge that I was trying to kill another human being did not sit easy with me. Thoughts of home, the pleasantness of travel, and Poirot kept me sane.

"One day we watched half of our squad cut to shreds by German fire. Jeeves hated disorder and loud noise even back then. It was too much; we returned to my room, and…"

I started when Poirot rested a hand at my neck. He whispered, "I understand, _mon ami_."

I nodded slightly, but I refused to face him. "Jeeves saved my life. I had gone over the top with the other lads, but a German gun caught me in the leg. I was trapped in the wire, and couldn't move. Jeeves… he used a body to protect me until he could extract me… and then he dragged me to safety."

Poirot's fingers tightened ever so slightly on the back of my neck as I spoke, but otherwise he remained silent.

"When I left the army, I waited for him. I thought he would find me after the war. I read all the papers and kept track of him as best I could. After the war ended, he never looked for me."

I was surprised by how little emotion there was in my voice. It had hurt at the time, terribly so, but now it was just another memory.

"I tried to find you," Poirot said. I looked up at him, startled by his words. "After I read about the death of your mother, I sent a telegram to you. I was settled in London, and I wished to offer you a place to stay and some companionship."

I was shocked, and I am sure that I looked it. "I never knew," I whispered.

Poirot nodded. "I thought not, or else you would have replied."

I nodded. After a few moments of silence, I said, "You know the rest."

Poirot shook his head, and said, "Tell me. Please, Hastings."

"Brighton was an accident," I said hesitantly. "I never expected to see Jeeves again. Perhaps it would have been prudent not to rekindle our affair, but we did."

"And now he is in love with his master?"

"He was in love with Wooster back then," I replied. "I can see this fact clearly in retrospect. The night we met in the garden, he told me so."

I refused to give out any of the more sordid details. The story was not mine to tell.

"He hurt you," Poirot murmured.

"Yes," I said, my thoughts turning to how grateful I ultimately felt. Loving Jeeves would have kept me from Poirot.

Poirot looked at me, his curiosity clear. He said, "You do not sound so devastated now, yes? You are feeling better?"

"I am," I said, feeling even better as I realized that perhaps I would not lose Poirot. If he no longer cared for me, he would not ask after my feelings.

Poirot seemed to come to a decision, and he sat down near me on the bed so that he was facing me. I was confused, but when he took my hand in his, and joined our fingers together, I decided it would be best just to listen to him.

"I have much to thank your friend for, Hastings. He saved your life twice."

"Twice?"

"On the battlefield and then last night."

"Oh, yes."

"I let you go once in the hopes that you would realize the truth, _mon ami_. Poirot does not make the same mistake twice."

I opened my mouth, intent on asking him what he meant, but he then explained himself by leaning forward and kissing me. I was so startled that for a moment I did not react, but when he began to pull away, I put my arms around his shoulders, keeping him close.

"Poirot?" I murmured, confused but delighted.

"Yes, _mon chou_?"

"I…" I could not think of anything to say. Instead I kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations:
> 
> Mon cher – my dear  
> J'ai rencontré ce quelqu'un que mon coeur connaissait déjà - I have met the one my heart already knew.  
> Mon chou – my dear (lit. my cabbage)


	3. Chapter 3

Poirot was as marvelous at kissing as he is at anything. The stiff moustache was an odd sensation, even after trying to imagine what it would feel like, but it did not at all detract from the moment. My eyes drifted shut as Poirot deepened the kiss, and I felt perfectly content to let him take control.

Poirot ended the kiss gradually, but continued to scatter kisses against my cheek and neck. I hummed softly, wishing that I felt better able to respond.

"You are in no health for the love making, Hastings," Poirot said, sitting back just enough to look into my eyes.

"I'm not going to let that stop me," I replied, leaning forward. Unfortunately my side protested at the sudden movement, and I let out a gasp.

Poirot tutted at me, and assisted me to recline against the pillows. I said, "Of all the times and places, Poirot, you had to pick this one."

Poirot thought for a moment, his gaze a caress that made me shiver. "When I saw you at Styles, Hastings, I knew that something was amiss. When we first met in Belgium, I came to the conclusion that you were receptive, but when I met you again, this did not seem to be the case."

"I was never sure," I replied, caressing his jaw with a finger. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "If I had known…"

"But you were waiting for Monsieur Jeeves."

"Yes." I hesitated, then added, "I wanted you, though, sometimes desperately."

I wondered if Poirot had expressed his interests while we were at Styles, would I have done as Jeeves had done? Would I have broken a tacit, unstated promise in order to fulfill my heart's desire? I suspect that I would not have done so - my honor would have forbidden it - but where would that have left me? Without Jeeves because he did not wish to return to me after the war. If only I had known.

Poirot must have seen the regret in my expression because he murmured, "No, no, no, Hastings. Do not dwell on the past. It does us no good. Instead, we must anticipate the future."

I smiled at him, my mood lightening at his cheery countenance. After a few more kisses I leaned back against the pillows, feeling exhausted but unwilling to say so. "What else did Beadsley say?" I asked.

Poirot took my hand in both of his, and I began to relax as his fingers gently stroked my palm and inner wrist. He said softly, "Beadsley said that he wanted the diary because he thought it would have compromising information about his sister and their family."

I hummed softly. "What would he have done with the diary had he found it? Taken it to the police?"

"I think not, Hastings," Poirot said. "Perhaps he meant to blackmail Smolensky."

"Perhaps," I replied softly.

"Sleep, _mon chou_ ," Poirot murmured.

I was about to protest, but I found that I was already asleep.

 

I woke to find a late lunch ready for me and no Poirot nearby. Instead a nurse was present. She explained that she had been sent by the doctor to check on my progress and also to assist with my cleanliness. I was relieved that I would not have to ask Poirot or one of the staff to help me.

The nurse reminded me of one of the wartime nurses who took care of me after I had been shot. Her no-nonsense attitude appealed to me, and made cleaning up much less embarrassing than it might have been otherwise. I felt much more myself after a sponge bath and a shave.

I ate without much appetite. The pain in my side was great but also my concern for Poirot and the case.

Poirot returned after I completed lunch, and before I could express my displeasure at his abandonment, he raised his hands to stop me and said, "The case is solved."

"It is?" I asked, surprised.

" _Oui_ , and you will learn all in a few minutes."

Poirot was true to his word, and soon those involved were assembled in the upstairs sitting room. Since I could not stray far from my bedroom, the nurse and Poirot assisted me to a wheelchair and rolled me to the upstairs sitting room.

Wooster smiled at me as I entered, and I smiled back. Jeeves was standing behind him, and I could see that whatever unease had been there yesterday was no more. I wished them all the best.

Poirot waited for all who were assembled to settle into their chosen spots. He reminded me of a dashing actor upon a stage, waiting to work his magic upon his audience. I smiled to myself as he began to speak; I have been present at such scenes many times and I have yet to grow bored.

"I thank you all for your indulgence in this matter. My usual method is to gather the relevant individuals into one place. As you are no doubt aware, my colleague Captain Hastings has been injured and is thus immobilized, and so we must come to him.

"I was called by Monsieur Smolensky to prevent his murder. He suspected that he was about to be murdered, but he never specified why he thought that the murder would take place on the night of the party. I believe that he knew the suspect would use the party as the means of gaining entrance into his house and murdering him."

"And so he called you," Inspector Bark said.

Poirot nodded.

Wooster spoke, his obvious faith pleasing Poirot to no end. "Why then would a murderer strike when he knew that the great Hercule Poirot was on hand and aware of the danger?"

"Perhaps he panicked?" I suggested.

"Perhaps," Poirot replied, shrugging his shoulders in such a way that suggested he did not think this likely. "I think it more likely that the murder felt he had to strike because he knew that certain information would become available afterward that would incriminate him."

"Are you suggesting, sir," said Jeeves, "that the murderer used the party as a way to gain access to Mr. Smolensky or that the party was an unwelcome addition to the murderer's plans?"

"A little of both, I should think."

I could see Jeeves' brain working feverishly on the clues that Poirot was giving him, and I was a bit relieved to see that even Jeeves was stumped.

Poirot was certainly enjoying his confusion. He said, "There are several suspects in this murder. Everyone in the house on that night can be said to have the opportunity."

There was a shift in the room as the seriousness of this slowly dawned on several members of the Drones.

"But," Poirot added dramatically, "only certain suspects had a motive." Here he gave a pointed glance at Jeeves that only a few of us seemed to note. Wooster looked confused, and Jeeves furious.

"Surely Beadsley is the most obvious suspect, Monsieur Poirot," Jeeves said coldly.

"Obvious, yes, Mr. Jeeves, but what is obvious is not always what is correct," Poirot snapped back. "For example, Miss Lily has a motive because she has been compromised by Mr. Smolensky."

"Poirot!" I said, scandalized by his callousness.

The maid blushed, and I felt quite sorry for her.

"And at least one member of Parliament would also welcome the death of Mr. Smolensky because he was being blackmailing."

Several gasps from the crowd made Poirot smile ever so slightly. He certainly had a riveted audience, and despite myself I smiled at my friend.

"When Mr. Smolensky first came to the country, he left behind a fiancée and an angry family. Indeed, Mr. Beadsley's anger toward Mr. Smolensky is due to Mr. Smolensky's compromising of his sister. The sister has been sent away to the country until she can return _sans_ evidence of her incommodity."

There were several blushes, and one could see that the Drones had little experience in such matters.

"The inspector has graciously allowed me to interviewed Mr. Smolensky, and from him I learned that he had searched Mr. Smolensky's desk, neatened it considerably," here he gave a meaningful look to Jeeves, "and departed. His intent was to confront Mr. Smolensky the following morning during breakfast."

"Why would he want to do that, Monsieur Poirot?" Wooster asked.

"In order to issue a threat, Mr. Wooster," Poirot replied. "I doubt very much that this would have been sufficient, but Mr. Beadsley was adamant. He wanted revenge for the wrong done to his sister."

"If Mr. Beadsley did not kill Mr. Smolensky, then who did?" Jeeves asked, his expression calm. I could tell, however, that he was disarmed by Poirot's evidence so far.

Poirot made a motion towards Jeeves as if to say, "You have raised an excellent point." He thought for a moment, and then said, "The murderer knew that there were several others who desired the death of Mr. Smolensky and also that at least one of these people would be present at the party. The murderer wished to allay suspicion on the more obvious suspect - the man with a wronged sister - and away from herself."

He turned to the maid, Lily, and said, "Is this not the case, mademoiselle?"

There was a collective gasp in the room. Lily looked shocked for a moment, but I recognized the brazenness in her eyes.

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Poirot. I am just as wronged as the poor sister of Mr. Beadsley."

"Perhaps," Poirot conceeded, "but you are also mentioned by description in Mr. Smolensky's diary... and with equal enthusiasm by a certain minister of his majesty's government. I am certain that you would also be mentioned in other ministerial memoranda."

Her eyes flashed with anger, and she stood quickly - intending some injury - and for a moment I feared that I would be unable to protect my friend, but the inspector's officers stopped her before she could get close to Poirot.

"Late in the night, after Mr. Beadsley had searched the desk, you held your usual rendezvous with Mr. Smolensky. You confronted him, shot him, and then tried to make it look as if Mr. Smolensky had shot himself. However, you made the simple error of choosing the wrong hand in which to place the gun. Mr. Smolensky was left-handed."

"You don't know anything," Lily replied, shaking with fury. "Why would I shoot him? He was going to marry me."

"There is evidence in the diaries as well as coded information in Mr. Smolensky's letters, both of which describe you perfectly as an eager participant in espionage. You were placed in several households, including the alluded to minister's household, from which you have gained valuable information which you have sold to Russia. Mr. Smolensky believed, did he not, that you were also selling your information to others… Germany and France.

"You had to murder him on that night because he was about to kill you. You had betrayed him, his country, and… he believed that you were becoming too old for your duties."

"You..." I shivered when I saw the look of pure hatred in her eyes. Her expression was calm and cold as she said, " _Je ne jamais oublierai, salopard_."

Poirot's jaw clenched, but he said nothing further. The inspector's men led her away, and Inspector Bark sighed. "Thank you, Monsieur Poirot."

Poirot nodded in response.

 

It was a further three days before I was allowed to return to London. A grateful, yet anonymous minister was happy to hire an ambulance to transport me from Smolensky's estate to our London flat. This quiet gave me ample time for reflection.

Poirot had been enamored with me since our first meeting, and I can scarcely believe it. I consider myself an intelligent and worldly man, but I did not display my best qualities when we first met. I had been in Belgium for only a couple of days. On the day we met I was looking for the Brussels Museum when I was distracted by a rather attractive blonde who professed need of my assistance. I was a bit put out when we were interrupted, but when I first saw Poirot, my interested was piqued. I cannot say that it was love at first sight, but when his eyes hardened and he presented madam's hand to me with my pocketbook clutched within, I was fascinated.

I had not experienced such desire for another man since I had left university. I was determined to put that behind me, and resigned myself to doing my duty for the family good. Perhaps resignation is too strong a word. I certainly enjoyed feminine beauty – for which Poirot has so often admonished me – but there was something about masculine beauty and the male body that my fantasies preferred.

We spent the next three weeks together, by far longer than I had intended to stay in Belgium. His brilliance, his handsomeness, and yes, even his sharp tongue, kept me enthralled. I found myself drawn to his confidence and his precise nature. His eyes were especially compelling, and I began to wake up at nights imagining his face above me, hovering over my lips.

I would gladly have stayed longer, finding whatever excuse I needed to remain. Poirot did not seem to tire of my company, and sometimes I imagined that he wanted me in the same way I wanted him. However, a letter arrived from my father; it requested my presence for my sister's wedding. He added a postscript that mentioned his fears of war and his desire for me to enter the army should war become a reality. A Hastings would never seek escape from his duty by playing overseas when his country needed him, and I greatly resented the fact that my father would have thought me to be such a coward.

Although now I know how Poirot felt, when I left him at the train station in Brussels, I assumed that it had been my own wistful fancy that suggested that our eyes were holding each other's gaze for too long or his fingers slid reluctantly from mine as we shook hands for the last time. Our lips caressed each other's cheeks for much longer than was necessary as we said goodbye in the continental manner, and I melted inwardly when our lips nearly brushed each other's as we switched cheeks. If I could change anything in my past, I would change that moment.

I thought of Poirot during the war, but my own doubts made me feel like a lovesick puppy. My regard for him was a strong as ever, despite my doubts, but I felt sure that he deserved a partner of the highest intelligence and attractiveness. Once Jeeves and I reached our battlefield understanding, I let my memories change into those emotions which would never been recovered. I felt changed by my time in the war, and felt that I would never have what once I had possessed: innocence, time, and Poirot.

Meeting Poirot at Styles was a glorious surprise, and only a few seconds into our meeting my love for him returned fully. For a time he made me feel as if we were still in Brussels and I was still a carefree young man. However, even if I had possessed the courage to speak of my feelings, I could do nothing because I was waiting for word from Jeeves. He knew where I was, or so I thought at the time, and I did not wish to betray him, especially since he was still in the field. I was familiar with this particularly bitter heartbreak because a few men under my command suffered when their girlfriends deserted them for other men.

I reluctantly left Poirot at Styles and returned to the Home Office where I continued to work for His Majesty's Army. I waited anxiously for word either from Jeeves or about his death.

After I was honorably discharged from the army, I returned home to find it in chaos. I knew that my father had committed suicide, but I did not realize how desperate the situation had become. Not only was the family fortune gone, this being the reason for my father's suicide, but more importantly my mother was beside herself with grief. My sisters had tried to assist her as best they could, but they were both married and had children of their own. I did what I could, but a son was no replacement for a husband. She did not commit suicide, but instead she slowly withered away to nothing.

A few days after her funeral, I discovered that Jeeves had survived the war. At first I was delighted by the news, but then the realization that Jeeves had not told me so himself sank in, and I felt gutted. In truth we had made no promises to each other, but I had hoped that our time together had been more than just a convenience. I thought about writing to him, but I was well aware of my lack of prospects and how another rejection would render itself to me. Jeeves would have heard about the death of my parents (at the very least, my mother) through the papers, and I was saddened that he had not even bothered to send any condolences.

Though I knew she did not mean it thus, my mother's descent into depression and death felt like a rejection of me. I needed her, I needed her support, and she was gone. I placed what money remained in an interest-account, and then ran away. I travelled through Europe and the Middle East, spent some time in India and China, then to Australia and from there to South America. I fell in love with Argentina, and considered retiring there, but England and an ever-pervasive restlessness kept me from completely settling in any one place.

Among the dark-eyed, dark-haired beauties of Argentina, I would remember Poirot's dark eyes and his insistence that we would meet again after the war. I wondered how he was getting on and if he had managed to set up an agency in England as I had encouraged him. He had insisted that I look him up, and I felt a great hope that his words were not frivolous.

I travelled through the United States, and at last sailed for England. I had missed her greatly, and it was good to return to England – to London – after many years of travel. At my hotel that night, I looked up Poirot's address and sent him a telegram. As I waited for a reply, I was startled by a knock on my door. When I opened it, I found Poirot on the other side.

" _Mon cher ami_ ," he cried, taking hold of my hands. He kissed my cheeks, and I returned as best I could, being flustered by his sudden presence.

"Hello, Poirot," I said, feeling a great swell of emotion rise within me. My friend looked as handsome as ever and in the pinnacle of health. He was well-dressed, obviously doing well for himself, and I felt a bit shabby in his presence.

"If I had known you were coming to see me, I would have cleaned up more," I said, feeling somewhat self-conscious.

"Do not trouble yourself, Hastings. I know that you have had a long journey."

I nodded, almost giddy from the pleasure of Poirot's presence. I motioned for him to sit down, and as there was only one chair, I sat on the bed across from him.

"How are you, Poirot? It has been so long since I've seen you last."

"Yes, much too long," he replied. "I am well. I work now as an independent consultant."

"Wonderful," I replied, thrilled by the news that Poirot had returned to police work (of a sort).

"You must come by tomorrow morning and see my little office. Ms. Lemon keeps it in excellent order. She is the most efficient of women."

I must admit that I felt a twinge of jealousy as Poirot spoke of this miraculous woman. He was a man who required order and neatness, and no doubt she fit the bill.

"And who is this Ms. Lemon?" I asked.

"My secretary, _mon ami_. You will like her, I think. She possesses not a shred of imagination, and thus she is the perfect secretary."

I nodded in agreement, although I could not imagine why lack of imagination would be a highly valued quality in a secretary.

Poirot looked around my apartment, his distaste obvious. He brushed his finger against the nightstand, and when it came away dirty, he exclaimed, "Hastings, why have you chosen this hotel? It is filthy!"

I winced at the horrified tone of his voice, and I said apologetically, "I'm sorry, Poirot, but it is all I could afford."

" _Non_ , _non_ , _non_ , Hastings, you will not stay in this room. You will stay with Poriot, yes?"

I was surprised by Poirot's offer, and I said, "I appreciate your kindness, Poirot, but I do not wish to take advantage of your kindness."

Poirot harrumphed in an amusingly Gallic manner, and said, "Poirot is not taken advantage of as easily as that, _mon cher_ Hastings. You must stay with me until you find a suitable flat."

In truth I was eager to spend more time with Poirot, but I was still feeling rather shy and unsure of myself. I loved Poirot, and I feared that I might give myself away if we were to live in close quarters. On the other hand, I yearned to recapture my carefree days with him before the war and to spend time in his presence. I was also fascinating by his occupation and wished to learn more about detection.

I finally agreed when I heard a rodent scurry under the bed. "I accept, Poirot. Thank you so much for your kindness."

"Not at all, Hastings. It is my pleasure to have you as my guest."

 

In short order I went from a guest in Poirot's flat to Poirot's roommate and partner. I remained there for several years, and only moved from the flat when I felt that I had to make a show of going out into the world once more and when I felt that Poirot was beginning to take my good nature for granted. However, I soon grew tired of my newfound independence and most of my time was spent in Poirot's flat, assisting with his cases and helping Ms. Lemon, or simply reading my paper and listening to the wireless.

I continued to make regular trips to Argentina in order to check on the progress of my estate. It had been a wise investment on my part, and I was thrilled that the success was my own. The only downside was the loneliness. Although many companions offered, I felt uneasy accepting a purely physical relationship. I needed love and friendship as well as physical release. It would have been a betrayal, although I knew that this was only in my mind. Jeeves had not wanted me, and Poirot was unaware.

As written this all seems so gloomy, but I was genuinely happy. A few clouds of loneliness or doubt were nothing compared with the excitement of sharing my life with Poirot and occasionally exploring the Argentine.

I never expected that it all would change in Brighton.

I looked up from my thoughts to see Poirot standing just inside the door. His expression was full of tenderness and just a hint of amusement.

"I was thinking about you," I replied softly, my heart beating faster.

His smile widened, and he shut the door.

 

The ambulance returned Poirot and myself without further injury back to London, and I felt much more comfortable now that I was able to rest safe in my own bed. Ms. Lemon had arranged everything so that I would be comfortable. She had a copy of the Telegraph at my bedside and the wireless on a new table that could be wheeled either into my bedroom or out into the sitting room. Ms. Lemon would not admit it, but she liked to coddle, and she was a good coddler.

I slept quite a lot during the next several days, and I was happy when I able to move more freely about the flat. I preferred to rest on the settee rather than spend my time alone in my room. Poirot had his own, trusted doctor attend to me once we returned to the city, and I felt more comfortable in his care.

In the evenings, after Ms. Lemon left for the day, Poirot would sit with me in the sitting room or the bedroom or, when I was feeling better, the kitchen. Poirot was certain that food would cure my pain, and so he expended a lot of energy in the kitchen preparing the most delicious meals for me. I always enjoyed Poirot's cooking, especially when he let me sit in the kitchen with him and taste everything, and he was certainly spoiling me.

Inspector Japp came to see me soon after my return, bringing with him a large bouquet of flowers. I was reclining on the settee when he entered. He shoved them in my direction, and in his gruff way said that he was glad to hear I was recovering. I was touched by his concern and his genuine regard for me.

Japp then asked for Poirot's help with a case, and I convinced Poirot that I would be able to manage in the flat without him. I am glad Poirot took up the case because not only was he always unhappy when he had no case to work on but also I was worried that before too long I would be unable to move from the settee due to Poirot's culinary medicine.

The nights were marvelous. Without speaking Poirot and I agreed that I should sleep in his bed. I could not do much at first because my injury prevented any more energetic expressions of love, but we managed quite well. I had never before spent hours kissing my lover, but no one had kissed me quite like Poirot, with a mixture of tenderness and possessiveness. Poirot wanted all of me, and I gave him everything. Each time he accepted, I could have cried with joy. This is what I had been missing.

As I continued to heal, our lovemaking became more heated. I learned that Poirot did have a sensitive neck. No wonder he complained so much about his collars. A simple kiss could make him shiver, and a gentle bite made him cry out. Poirot's skills at detection served us both well as he discovered every one of my sensitive spots during a long evening together. One of his favorites was a spot on my lower back which when lightly caressed would cause me to moan. We discovered by accident that this spot could be stimulated through fabric, much to my chagrin and Poirot's amusement.

We had done little more than give mutual pleasure with our hands and mouths by the time I was deemed completely healed by Poirot's doctor. I was grateful because I longed for a complete union with my friend but he had refused due to concern for my heath.

Poirot must have had an idea that the doctor was going to pronounce me completely healthy that day because after the doctor left, Poirot said with customary flourish, "And now we shall celebrate."

My smile must have given away my thoughts on how we should celebrate because Poirot said, "First, you must change into the white tie, Hastings." At my confused look, he said, "We are going out tonight."

"Out?" I said, feeling a bit disappointed.

" _Oui_ ," Poirot replied, coming over to embrace me. We kissed, but before I could deepen it, he pulled away and said, "I have obtained reservations at _La Cote D'Or_ and tickets to the theater."

He let me go, but before I could protest, he took my hand, and bowing slightly over it, he kissed it gently. "These things must be done properly," Poirot replied, his heated gaze making me forget my earlier protestations.

"Of course," I said, feeling almost shy in his presence. I had rarely been pursued by anyone, and so this was a new experience for me. Poirot knew he did not need to court me in order to win my affections, so I presumed that this was a way of proclaiming his affections in as public a manner as we could safely manage.

Dinner was perfection, and I found the operatic performance to be highly stimulating, being full of lush music and exotic dancing. On occasion I would feel Poirot's hand brush against mine, under the table at the restaurant or between our chairs in the dark of the theater, and I would respond in kind.

When we returned home, I took Poirot by the hand and led him past the kitchen into the sitting room. I then guided him into my arms, and kissed him, grateful to release weeks of hemmed in desire. I felt one of his hands in my hair, holding my head gently as he returned the kiss, his other on my lower back, pulling me closer.

My own hands were trembling as they explored Poirot's chest and then his back. The flat was silent but for the sound of fabric and soft noises of pleasure.

I sighed as his hand pressed against my stomach, wanting very much to feel his touch against my skin. I tugged at his tie to remove it, and when I stroked his bare neck, Poirot moaned.

"Please," I whispered, pressing kisses against his exposed skin.

" _Oui, mon chou_ ," Poirot murmured, his hand resting on my hip. He looked at me for a moment, then took my hand and led me to the bedroom.

More kisses and caresses followed as we began to remove each other's clothes. Poirot's normal fastidiousness was absent, and I was grateful because I did not want to stop in order to fold or hang up anything.

I reclined back on the bed and Poirot followed moments later, and the simple contact of bare skin was enough to give pleasure to us both. Our hands stroked each other, searching for the sensitive spots we had found in the past weeks. I had waited for him too long to be content with much more teasing, and I think Poirot sensed my need or perhaps felt the same because soon I felt gentle fingers at my entrance.

"Hastings," Poirot murmured, "is this your wish, _mon cher_?"

"Yes," I replied, voice rough with desperation. "Dear god, yes."

Poirot's reply was a forceful kiss, and then soon his slick fingers were pressing into me. I cried out, hips moving eagerly against him. I heard him speak some French I could not understand, but I understood the lustful tone; he wanted me as well.

We remained face to face as he pressed himself into me, my arms around his shoulders and my legs against his hips. His expression was one I had seldom seen on him, a wild passion in his dark brown eyes, and I could not look away as he began to thrust.

" _Je t'adore, mon cher amour_ ," Poirot murmured, his thrusts hitting that place within me that drove me to distraction.

I moaned softly, thrilled by the sound of his voice and the words he was saying. I enjoyed speaking during lovemaking, and Poirot seemed happy to indulge me.

"Poirot, love, oh yes," I replied, keeping my voice low so as not to wake the neighbors.

" _Tu es le mien_ ," Poirot said after a particularly forceful thrust.

I cried out, back arching into his thrusts. " _Oui, je suis le tien_ , I replied, breathless.

Perhaps it was then I discovered how much Poirot enjoyed listening to me speak his native French. It had been one thing for him to listen to me haltingly ask for directions to the train station but quite another to hear me cry out _j'en veux plus_. Admittedly my French has improved since our first meeting.

Poirot began to stroke my erection, though I hardly needed more stimulation by this point. Poirot cried out my name, and pressed himself deep into my body. My hands tightened on his shoulders as I felt his warmth, which brought about my own release. I pressed my face against his neck, wanting to shout but needing to be silent.

I am unsure how long we stayed that way. I felt a little achy but very satisfied, and I began to stroke Poirot's back with one hand, feeling overwhelmed by how in love I was with him.

Poirot pulled back just far enough so that I could see his face, which was relaxed and happy. I was proud that I given him such happiness, and my only regret was that I could not tell to the world the identity of the man who held my heart.

After we shifted to our preferred sleeping positions, we were silent for a time. Poirot was lying on his back. I never could understand how he slept like that, but this meant that I could easily fit myself against him when I lay on my side. I rested my cheek against his shoulder, content to keep his arms around me.

"Do you know what I should have done when we first met, _mon ami_?"

"What's that, old thing?" I asked, sighing softly into his shoulder.

"Poirot should have followed his instincts. I should have taken you by the hand," he said, naming off his steps as if he were discussing the steps a murderer had taken. "I should have led you to my apartment, and I should have made love to you right then and there."

"Poirot!" I said, blushing furiously. "You really are the limit."

"You disagree, Hastings?" he said, teasing me.

"Well, no, but..."

"Do you not agree that all of this could have been avoided if I had done so?"

"Yes, but..."

"What would you have said, _mon sucre d'orge_ , if I had done so? Would you have played the coy? Would you have refused? Or did you not think of Poirot in that light?"

I was still puzzling over Poirot's endearment, and there were a few moments of silence before I answered. I wished to make clear exactly how I felt. "I thought about you very much in that light, Poirot. I would have followed you anywhere, if I had known."

I felt a kiss to my brow, and looked up at Poirot. His expression left me in no doubt that my answer pleased him or that he felt as strongly for me as I for him.

 

- _FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations:
> 
> Sans – without  
> Je ne jamais oublierai, salopard – I will never forget, bastard.  
> Je t'adore, mon cher amour – I adore you, my dear love.  
> Tu es le mien – You are mine.  
> Oui, je suis le tien – Yes, I am yours.  
> J'en veux plus – I want more.  
> Mon sucre d'orge – My dear (lit. my barley sugar; my sweetness from barley)


End file.
